Thursday, September 18, 2014

an incredibly tiny essay on art reviewing

I am feeling melancholy about all the art exhibitions not written about in any size shape or form—not an analysis set in stone for the ages, just a writeup in terms of “Here’s some stuff that a certain demographic will like, and another demographic will absolutely hate.”

[One of the many problems with this is that not even I wanted to read the five hundred additional words I wrote about the topic. Here they are, however:]

...But in the first place, that’s a hard thing to perceive. In the second place there aren’t enough writers to perceive it. In the third place, all but the most mundane of artists like to think they are making work that does more than appeal to sixty-year-old investment bankers in one case, forty-year-old adjunct professors in another, and twenty-three-year-old baristas hoping for more meaningful jobs in yet another. Yet most art falls into this category, and I wish it were possible to write reviews that say, “None of this work will go into art history, but two or three pieces are downright memorable, and half the work is something that folks of a certain age will wish they could own.” But nearly all of us delude ourselves as to the importance of what we are doing—we either value it too highly, or dismiss it as worthless when it isn’t. Reviewers similarly over- or undervalue for reasons that are merely personal/psychological, no matter how sophisticated they think their methodologies are.

So why not more reviews that say, “Here are some photos of what I think are the most interesting works in the show; the artist says this about them (but I disagree/agree with modifications/really don’t care one way or the other), and if you like this sort of thing, then this is the sort of thing you will like.” Because there are not more people willing to spend their days seeing artwork they mostly do not like in order to write that sort of review for almost no money, for one thing. For another, it takes considerable skill in sussing out changing socioeconomic dynamics to be able to match artists and audiences. For a third thing, neither artist nor audience wants to have this relationship spelled out so baldly.

Yet some of the people who could do this sort of matchup delicately are engaged instead in trying to write “Ten fun things you probably didn’t know about Ingmar Bergman, including who he was and what he did,” and “Which endangered mammal species are you?” for almost as little money as they would get for writing a match-up type of art review. Some of them, however, may prefer this type of peonage to having to deal with the entire broad spectrum of artists and gallery operators and the people who love and hate them.

This six-hundred-or-so-word chunk of prose is the maximum length for a readable review, in any case; not enough to do justice to most exhibitions but most exhibitions don’t require justice, just audiences. Justice can be done at the artist's retrospective, if the artist is lucky enough to get one.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

and now for another deferral/displacement

I find myself writing more and more posts on that semi-belong on this blog, but not quite. Still less do they belong on the compendium of more or less coherently expressed ideas that is For that matter, there are leaps of illogic in the previous essay on photography that ought to be cleared up, but I haven't the time or inclination to do so. I shall continue on with the review essays I have pledged to write but never quite seem to complete.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

a little essay on photography (not quite Walter Benjamin's title)

In Victor Hugo’s novel Notre Dame de Paris, a character announces, gesturing from the book on his table to the cathedral outside, “This will kill that.” “Small things overcome great ones,” he continues. “The book will kill the building.”

In other words, the printing press could produce small things that communicated ideas more immediately and in a more easily distributed form than the sermons in stone that were embodied in the medieval cathedrals. The power and prestige inherent in the work of architecture and the power and prestige symbolized by it could be overturned by a humble and democratic medium (requiring only literary skill and a little technical skill to produce successful results).

When photography was invented, the commonplace pronouncement with regard to painting was “This will kill that.” But seriously innovative painting has survived quite nicely, having found other ways to deploy the medium, just as architecture symbolizing power and prestige has survived quite nicely in spite of the scarcity of world-changing church buildings.

Whether photography as publicly perceived survives its own ease of technical reproducibility is another question. I leave to one side (for the moment) whether it survives the migration to onscreen media; a photograph fired off to Facebook is still a photograph, and quite often a very good photograph. I’m concerned right now with audience attitudes about the medium as an art form.

For a number of years, I selected the award winners in the “My Atlanta” exhibition, a partially unjuried annual show in which members of the community display what the consider their best photographs (photography teachers in high schools also submit the best work of their students, so in that sense the show is also a juried exhibition).

I was invariably struck by a couple of things: First, just how good the best work was; second, how much better many of the photographs by high school students were than many of the photographs by the (mostly) amateur adults; and third, just how often the high school work was more imaginative and far-ranging than most of the work I was seeing in the commercial galleries.

This was and is a confirmation of one of the principles of Atlanta Celebrates Photography: photography is the democratic medium. Although at its traditional best it requires an immense amount of technical expertise, anyone with visual acuity and a sense of composition can make a superb photograph.

The problem lies in that “visual acuity and sense of composition” portion of the equation. Anyone can take a picture, just as anyone can write a sentence. This leads, just as with the once-commonplace response to action painting, to the audience response of “Anyone can do that.”

This is part of what leads to the world’s vast quantities of illiterate-sounding literary productions, bad abstract paintings, and dreadful photographs expensively framed and offered for sale or proudly displayed on living room walls. People assume that they too could do that, and they try to do it, with depressing results.

Eventually, some of them learn what they actually can do, and what they can’t. And the equipment allows them to make a good photograph far more readily than they can make a good painting. As with writing, assiduous imitation of the creative strategies they admire will typically result in a perfectly creditable product, and often a quite beautiful and emotionally evocative one. The same kind of expression of innate skill combined with happy accident can occur in painting and sculpture, but not nearly so often. And because of the effort involved in acquiring the technique, people are less inclined to suppose that they can turn out a masterwork without half trying.

But what if they can, in the same way that self-taught or folk or vernacular artists turn out astonishing drawings, collages, sculptures, and paintings (not to mention installation art) without even knowing there are names for such artistic genres and that they can be studied in academic courses? There are probably almost as many inept or execrable products of self-taught artists as there are inept and execrable products of art schools or community art classes, but the occasional masterwork does emerge through some intrinsic mental capacity to extract lessons from experience. (See the notion of “ecorithms” or natural algorithms in the new book Probably Approximately Correct for a possible evolutionary explanation of self-taught art, although I doubt that the author knows that there is such a thing as self-taught art.)

Provided the picture-taker wasn’t too concerned with having things in sharp focus and was taking pictures in good lighting conditions, photography has long been as easy to do, and as hard to do well, as creating a folk-or-vernacular yard environment (a.k.a. installation art before it had a name). In fact, photography was easier than moving objects around to form significant configurations, because photography is the original found-object art: you see an arrangement of light, color, and objects in the natural world, you frame the found composition in your viewfinder, and you trip the shutter. Behold, a work of art has been created.

In fact, pre-Photoshop, there was in certain circles a whole mystique of the ability to frame the image in your viewfinder so as to exclude the pile of litter just outside the picture. (This also presumes no cropping of the image in the darkroom, a limitation few photographers would accept.) No fair picking up the trash before you portray your scene of beauty; you have to do the heavy lifting in your head instead, keeping the unwanted aspect out of the picture you are about to take. (Before Photoshop evened the playing field, this is where the well-trained painter had the advantage even over the darkroom-savvy photographer: it was much easier to remove the inconveniently placed tree from the scene in a realist painting, or insert, say, a surreal battleship into the middle of Main Street.)

Audiences and photographers are still fighting the battles of two and three generations ago, so nobody has had time to ponder the artistic status of, say, creative screen captures. Is a screen-capture collage a photograph? (It’s certainly not a picture of the world outside the screen itself, nor is it a picture of a picture, exactly, nor is it a digitally manipulated photograph, because it’s the images onscreen that are moved around, if the image-maker is doing a set-up; or more often, the transient images are found and captured in the same way that one would frame a scene in a camera viewfinder and trip the shutter.)

More and more, then, the art depends almost entirely on the perception of the mind that sees the objects and the possibilities in the objects. When a simple touch of the screen creates the image, knowing when to touch the screen becomes the key creative act, in the same way that advances in camera technology reduced the creative act in photography to knowing when and where to take the picture.

This has already blunted popular appreciation of the range of possibilities available to practitioners who have mastered the technical side of things. Just as photographers who knew the ways of darkroom technique were horrified at the the popular notion that pressing the shutter and then taking the film to the drugstore made the average picture-taker the same as Ansel Adams, I presume serious new-media people are horrified that the advent of shortcut software programs for the laptop and the smartphone have resulted in a flood of idiotically conceived images that are instantly posted to social media.

The key component remains, in any case, what the mind that perceives the possibilities does with the technology. There is a lot of really bad tech-savvy art out there, in all media.

Whether any of these newest-media images, good or bad, ever stop being “photographs” is a matter of definition of terms. To return us to our starting point, most folks still think a photograph is a picture of the way things really are in the outside world, the same way they think a painting (a “real painting,” that is) is a painted picture of the way things really are in the outside world.

When we talk about bridging the conceptual gaps between artist and audience, we are talking about distances and depths of division for which the Grand Canyon is an inadequate standard-issue metaphor. The gulfs are more like the Marianas Trench, and like the Trench they have the added difficulty of being invisibly beneath the surface.

Thursday, May 16, 2013

The previous post, transferred with slight edits from my other blog, will be further offered in a gesture designed to render still more complex its conceptual-art embeddedness, as an authorized edition. Details to follow someday.

I originally thought of this account of an actual dream as being situated somewhere in between Yves Klein and Tino Sehgal, but now I suppose it is more properly still stuck between Freud and Jung, with a nod to the fiction of John Crowley and China Miéville.

In Dreams....

  In Dreams Begin Responsibilities

[©? you decide.]

Early on the morning of May 11, I woke from a dream in which I had written a full review of an exhibition at a gallery in Atlanta. I was delighted that I had done the basic work of composing one of the many reviews that I still have to write, until I realized I had written about an exhibition that didn’t exist.

This is what I wrote in the dream, more or less, as best I can reconstruct it. The review is plausible because M.M. (spelled out in the review in the dream) is a large multi-gallery space that houses several independent exhibitions at the same time.

“Unwitting Underground,” at M.M., is a Buddhist-themed exhibition in one of the space’s several galleries that consists of works made from the materials left after the creation of the artworks in the other galleries. Assemblages, not all of them imitative of Sarah Sze’s approach to the problem, contain used-up tubes of paint, marble and granite chips from sculptures, trays of unsuitable found objects, and so forth. (Some viewers may be reminded of the recent show of Thornton Dial works that included wall pieces made from all the detritus he recovered from the studio floor, or of Howard Finster’s “I took the pieces you threw away....”) The work by the anonymous Buddhist artists who created the show incorporated as well all the inventory sheets, scraps of hanging wire, pizza boxes, etc.  discarded by the gallery staff during the installation of the other exhibitions.

One wall piece is a sort of webbed holster in which objects needed for the ongoing creation of art can be put on display long enough to be photographed for inclusion in the exhibition. I installed my cane, with which I hobble around to write these reviews, until the documentation was completed.

I suppose I should have waited until I finished writing, but of course then the cane would not have been part of the exhibition about which I had written.

—Jerry Cullum, May 11, 2013

Monday, February 4, 2013

All the World's Biennials (or, All the World's a Biennial, and the People on it Merely Artists)

The Third Antakya Biennial has a website that contains nothing but the presumably hypothetical dates for it, but a bit of websearching takes us also to the site of the Biennial Foundation, which facilitates the proliferation of international biennials and provides this extraordinary list of them:

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Counterforces has been effectively moribund in recent years as I shifted my focus to the concerns expressed on, but LJ is becoming so spam-ridden that everyone is jumping to Dreamwidth or some other blog device (those of us whose thoughts don't fit into the Facebook format most of the time).

I am thinking of starting a new blog to summarize my conclusions after seven years of joculum, and letting my art commentaries migrate back to Counterforces whether they fit the global context or not.

Just FYI, for the eight folks and one friend (as Blogger somehow delineates them) who follow this one. I would say you are all my friends.

Counterforces and Other Little Jokes